“What is it, Bruce?” she asked him, warily, as though she could ward off the answer.
“The wind’s changed. We’re sailing in an hour.”
“Sailing! In an hour! But you said last night it wouldn’t be for days!”
“I didn’t think it would. But we’re ready sooner than I expected and there’s nothing to wait for.”
While she stood there, helpless, he turned and went through the door, and then she followed him. There was a small leather-covered nail-studded trunk of his on the table already packed more than half full, while the wardrobe in which he kept his clothes was opened and empty. Now he took some shirts from a carved oak chest, piled them into the trunk, and as he did so he began to talk to her.
“I haven’t much time, so listen to what I say. I’m leaving the coach and horses for your use. The coachman gets six pound a year with his livery and the footman gets three, but don’t pay them until next May or they’ll likely rub off. I’ve paid all the bills and the receipts are in the drawer of that table. So are the names and locations of a couple of women who can take care of you—ask them what the charge will be before you move into the house. It shouldn’t be more than thirty or forty pound for everything.”
While Amber stood staring at him, horrified at the brusque impersonal tone of his voice, he closed the lid of the trunk and walked swiftly to the door of the other room where he made a signal to someone evidently waiting out in the hall. The next moment he was back, followed by a great ruffian with a patch over one eye, who shouldered the trunk and went out again. All the while Amber had been watching him, desperately trying to think of something she could say or do to stop him. But she felt stunned, paralyzed, and no words came to help her.
From the pocket of his doublet Bruce now drew a heavy leather wallet, closed by draw-strings and bulging with coins, and tossed it onto the table.
“There’s five hundred pound. That should be enough to take care of you and the baby for several years, if necessary, but I’d advise you to put it with a goldsmith. I’d intended to do that for you, but now I haven’t time. Shadrac Newbold is perfectly reliable and he’ll allow you six percent interest if you put it with him at twenty days call, or three and a half if you want it on demand. He lives at the Crown and Thistle in Cheapside; his name is written on this piece of paper. But don’t trust anyone else—above all don’t trust a maid if you take one into service, and don’t trust any strangers no matter how much you may like them. Now—” He turned and picked up his cloak. “I’ve got to go.”
He spoke swiftly, giving her no chance to interrupt, and obviously was in a hurry to get out before she started to cry. But he had not taken three steps when she ran to throw herself before him.
“Bruce! Aren’t you even going to kiss me?’
He hesitated for only an instant and then his arms went about her with a rough eagerness which suggested some reluctance within himself to leave her. Amber clung to him, her fingers clutching his arms as though she could hold him there by sheer force of superior strength, her mouth avidly against his, and already her face was wet with tears.
“Oh, Bruce!
But at last his fingers took hold of her wrists and slowly he forced her away. “Amber, darling—” His voice had a sound of pleading urgency. “I’ll come back one day—I’ll see you again—”
She gave a sudden cry, like a lonely desperate animal, and then she began to struggle with him, reaching out to grab hold of his arms, terrified. All at once he seized both her wrists, his mouth caught at hers again for an instant, and before she could quite realize what had happened he was gone through the room and out the door and it slammed behind him.
Stunned, she stood for a moment staring at the closed door. And then she ran to it, her hand going out to grab the knob.
“Bruce!”
But she did not quite reach it. Instead she stopped, brought up short by some hopelessness inside herself, and though for a moment her eyes continued to watch the door, at last she slumped slowly to her knees and her head dropped into her hands.
THE DUKE OF YORK leaned gloomily against the fireplace. His hands were in the pockets of his breeches, his good-looking face was sulky, and he stared down at the floor. Across the room Charles was bent over a table, peering intently into a pewter pan set on an oil-lamp, in which boiled and bubbled a hundred different herbs. Now, carefully, he took up a spoon and measured in three heaping spoonfuls of dried ground angelica, stirring as he did so.
